Chapter 49 #2
“There hasn’t been a night when I haven’t jerked off to thoughts of you.
For someone who prides himself on his control, I haven’t been able to control my body’s reaction to you.
Haven’t been able to stop myself from finding release to thoughts of you.
The things I want to do to you. Have done to you in my mind—” I shake my head.
“I’m afraid if I told you, it might scandalize you. ”
Her eyes widen. Her lips part. She seems on the verge of saying something, then stops herself.
“I’m so far gone over you that even taking care of myself doesn’t work anymore.”
Color smears her cheeks. The pulse at the base of her throat speeds up. I draw in a sharp breath, and I swear, I can smell the sugary scent of her arousal over that ever-present coconut and vanilla scent of hers. It goes to my head and makes my ball throb. Fuck.
There is something powerful, unsettling, and addictive about this woman. I want her so much, it scares me.
She slowly lowers her gaze to my crotch. And when she raises her eyes to mine, there’s satisfaction in her eyes.
"I won’t say that it’s not satisfying to see you suffer.” Her eyebrows knit. “Sometimes, you seem so remote. So distant. It’s so difficult to tell what you’re feeling. I’ll take whatever gives me a clue to the true state of your mood."
The silence extends.
She doesn’t make a move to close the door. I stay where I am, too.
"That kiss in the car… It was something…" The words are drawn from me like butter from milk. I can’t separate my feelings from who I am when I am with her. "Every kiss with you has been…everything."
Her eyes fill up. "James. You say the most beautiful things."
I allow myself to feel the full effect of my longing for her. Allow my body to heat further. My mind to fill with thoughts of everything I want to do to her. My skin to tingle with how it’d feel to be fused with hers.
"Only with you."
She sniffles. "I can’t even go to bed hating you."
“Thank fuck.” The breath I’ve been holding rattles out of me, leaving my shoulders heavy, grounded.
A snort escapes her.
When she speaks, her tone carrying a warmth that wasn't there a second ago. “You speak in poetry and gut-punches. How am I supposed to stay angry at that?
I’m probably a bastard for having used my talent to get her to forgive me, but I can’t play fair anymore.
Not when I’m so close to changing the principles I’ve lived my life by.
I’m not going to push my luck further either. Not tonight.
Knocking my knuckles against the doorframe, once, twice, thrice, I step back. "Goodnight, Harper."
"'Night, James."
Over the next week, I’m able to keep my feelings in control. I don’t ignore her, but I’m able to keep a professional distance from her at work.
But at home, I pull back every time I feel myself getting close to overstepping the line that keeps my emotions in check. I’m exhausted enough that at night, I manage to fall into a deep dreamless sleep. Only to wake up the next morning and do it all over again.
It’s Friday when, after a particularly stressful day at the restaurant, we walk into the apartment worn out.
I head straight for my bar and pour myself a sliver of whiskey and her usual glass of sauvignon blanc. We both need it after the day we’ve had.
She drops her bag on the couch and walks over to take a stool at the kitchen island.
When I place the glass of wine in front of her, she grabs it before I’ve completed the action, making our fingers brush.
That same telltale frisson of awareness vibrates up my arm.
I’m instantly so hard, I see stars. Fuck.
All the neediness I’ve tried to keep at bay all week rushes forward like water brought to boil on a stovetop.
When her breath hitches, I know, she’s having the same reaction.
I retrieve my hand so quickly, I feel like I have whiplash.
Hurt flutters across her features. She grabs the glass and gulps down her wine, then bursts out coughing.
"Jesus, go slow, or you’ll be drunk before you know it." I pat her back, trying to help her breathe properly.
Only touching her means I’m aware of her. Of the warmth of her body through her clothes, the scent of grease and seared meat, which clings to her hair, not quite masking her natural vanilla and coconut scent. I find myself wanting to bend and kiss her neck.
Luckily, I manage to take a step back before doing that. To be safe, I walk over to the barstool on the other side of the island, then take a sip of my whiskey.
She stiffens, no doubt having noticed my movement. Reaching for the bottle, she tops herself up.
"I need to be drunk." She scowls at the glass. "So, I can deaden the nerve endings on my feet."
"Do they hurt?" I grimace in sympathy.
"Don’t yours?"
"Of course. But pain is just data. You learn from it, catalog it, and move on." I shrug. "Pain is a frequency I’ve learned to tune out."
She snorts. "Thanks. Now I feel like a wimp."
"Not at all. You’re doing really well."
She raises her gaze to mine. "Thanks?" she says uncertainly.
"I mean it." I lower my chin. "You handled the oven malfunction mid-service, which affected multiple stations, with aplomb."
"Couldn’t have done it without you." She raises her glass at me. "You were cool under pressure. That was not what I expected."
I allow myself a small smirk. "You expected me to throw a tantrum?"
She eyes me over her glass. "You supported my backup plan without protest."
"It was a good plan. You redistributed the stations. Took the salamander broiler for all proteins, moved the fish to the undercounter fridge, switched pastry to cold desserts. The service ran ten minutes behind. But—"
"—it ran," she says the same time as me.
She grins at me. I allow myself a small chuckle. Our gazes meet, and just like that, the air between us heats.